


what shines brightest

by aetherae



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (even if it was a longroad.mp3 getting there), Angst with a Happy Ending, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Gen, Post-Canon, happy bappy to my BOY; my MANS; the ABSOLUTE LOVE OF MY LIFE!, i just want him to be happy and have all the love in the world, when better to try and give him that than on his birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aetherae/pseuds/aetherae
Summary: It takes a long while for Dimitri to see his birthday as worth celebrating.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Blue Lions Students
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	what shines brightest

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO DIMITRI ALEXANDRE BLAIDDYD, THE ONLY MAN IN THE WORLD TO MATTER!! like idk what else there is to say, i just wanted to celebrate dimitri's birthday!!! one of the most important days of the YEAR tbqh! but also in typical me fashion, celebrating his special day with love and happiness doesn't mean i can't indulge in some good ol' angst and trauma for my boy :') he makes it so easy and i love 2 hurt (myself), what can i say.
> 
> also i am still absolutely on my agenda of flayn being considered part of the class when it's am or vw at least. she's in the cutscenes! she deserves to have more friends! yes this is important enough for me to mention here!!
> 
> BUT WITH ALL THAT SAID, i hope you enjoy!

**1181.**

Fhirdiad winters have always been cold enough for their chill to cut right to the bone, but in Imperial Year 1181, Dimitri learns that winter is coldest in the Fhirdiad slums.

Some burn fires in the street, collecting garbage and trash thrown out about the city during the day to keep them warm later at night. Others tuck themselves into the alleys between buildings, backs pressed against the walls in threadbare clothing as if that could cut the icy winds in half. Buildings are boarded up to keep out the cold, then torn down again to feed the fires. Occasionally, he looks through the cracked and fractured windows to find families huddled together. Parents holding their children tight to their bosoms, siblings clinging around each other with no one else to keep them safe through the night, grandparents clutching infants with trembling hands.

Dimitri has none of those things. He has the clothes on his back, a ratty cloak that smells of the landfill he fished it out of moons ago, and a dagger that fills him with such white-hot fury every time he so much as looks at it, he can almost forget the cold.

Almost. Half-dead as he is, starved as he is, likely delirious with fever as he is, even he can admit the weather may very well freeze him to death at this rate.

He doesn’t know what day it is. He hasn’t for a while. Even after escaping from the castle—letting Dedue, his most precious friend in all the world, _die_ for him, and so many of his nightmares feature the man condemning his inaction, begging that Dimitri should have died instead when he wastes his sacrifice—there’s no way to leave the city. Cornelia placed the entire capital under lockdown after his supposed execution, even the slums. Recovering from the wounds of his escape is excruciatingly slow without medical aid, without food. Leaving, it seems, is impossible.

Yet all he must do is remember the dagger clutched with a vice grip in his hand to remember that leaving is only a matter of time.

It’s difficult at times to mark what happens around him, his mind divided between placating the dead and ignoring the gaping hole of starvation in his stomach. He blinks, and night has fallen. He blinks again, and not even the afternoon sun can pierce the dark clouds above. Dimitri blinks once more, and today he finds an unfamiliar sight in the streets of the slums.

Candles, lining the windows. They’re easy to pick out in the dark of night, even with the scattered fires lit throughout the streets. He could almost think even those fires seem brighter than normal, but then again, the entire slum seems to be brighter than normal. The winter wind blows, whipping the drifting snow around him, and as he wraps his cloak tighter around himself, it’s enough to carry a conversation from down the road to him.

“Why did we get candles today, Mama?” a young voice asks.

“Because it’s the prince’s birthday today,” comes a woman’s reply.

“Oh. But the prince died.”

“Yes, he did,” the woman says, and Dimitri hears Lambert and Patricia both echo her in a scathing chorus. _He did, he did, he should have died, you should have died with us._ “But there was no funeral, remember? Cornelia wouldn’t hold one for him. You need to hold a funeral for those who died. Otherwise, they’ll cling to their regrets forever. They’ll never move on in peace.”

“Is that the prince’s birthday gift then? Peace?”

“Yes, darling. Today we give him peace.”

The wind dies down. He hears nothing save for the crackling of distant fires, the yawning silence of snow falling to the earth. 

Today is his birthday, then. The twentieth day of the Ethereal Moon. Today, he turns nineteen.

 _No_ , he thinks dully to himself as he huddles against a wall. The mother and her child pass by him without a second glance, just another poor wretch of Fhirdiad’s slums, the same as them. _The prince of Faerghus died moons and moons ago._

Today only marks another year without justice. Another year without peace.

Dimitri looks down at the dagger in his hand and scoffs. Cold as he is, he couldn’t unwind his fingers from it even if he wanted to. Peace could not come to him no matter how the people might offer it. Not when he must sever Edelgard’s head from her shoulders and break her skull in half with his bare hands. Not when his heart calls out for El’s blood pouring out of her body, for the feeling of bones shattering beneath his fingers, for a vengeance that leaves him more raging beast than noble prince.

It is a shame, he thinks. The people waste their gift on him, when he could never accept peace to begin with.

* * *

**1182.**

Dimitri wakes up, and the first thing he notices: the sound of flies.

The second thing he notices: the stench of rotting flesh.

It is how he wakes up most days, in truth, the days blurring together when he drenches them all in blood. Collapsed on a battlefield, exhausted from fatigue and whatever new injuries he gained, passed out for hours next to cadavers. There’s a certain kind of safety in sleeping among the dead; when every single body here fell by his hand, he can slip into unconsciousness knowing there’s no danger posed by man. The only threats that remain are scavenger birds and maggots. Beasts prefer their hunts fresh, and so Dimitri can rest—not easily, but with the singular knowing that little threatens him here in a valley of decay. Freshly spilled blood remains warm for quite a while, even in the depths of winter, and he has grown used to scavenging what little warmth he can find.

He sits up from the ground with a grunt, his left hand stiff and unmoving at his elbow even without any pain—and he remembers a lance ramming hard into his armor, denting it to the point where it could no longer bend naturally, but that proved little hindrance when he could ram his own lance straight through their jugular, snapping their neck clean from their body so precisely he heard the bones break.

Now though, it could pose a hindrance. An annoyance. With a sigh, Dimitri undoes all the clasps and pieces before shucking the entire thing off. He needs to find a new gauntlet, and here among so many cadavers, he should find one easily enough. Corpses have little need of anything, let alone armor that failed to protect them from his wrath. Dimitri stands up and wades through the field of bodies, pilfering and looting what he can find among the rot.

There are no shops to visit as a beast, no blacksmiths available for a ghost. Even if he drifted through slums or shanty towns, they are no goods to offer in trade when every scrap they have is saved for survival. No, it’s faster to resupply this way: lifting limp bodies with a hand and evaluating the condition of their armor, rolling them over with a kick to search for supplies. It’s how he finds bandages, vulneraries, flint and steel for fire. It’s how he finds food when animals are too scarce to hunt, when not even the hardiest plants survive the cold. 

It’s how he finds a pair of pitch black gauntlets, the fingers segmented like real joints and ending in sharpened black claws. Dimitri only needs the one, but the idea of being able to carve bloody paths into the flesh of his enemies holds appeal, of engraving justice into their very bones. His loved ones are only too eager to agree.

After stripping the body of its gauntlets, he grabs for the sack tied to their waist and empties it. What he needs most of all now is food, anything for the gaping hollow of his stomach. Instead, all he finds are trinkets. A stopwatch, clearly cared for. A stack of letters, worn and crinkled. A leather journal, aged with patina. 

As if killers could be human. 

Still, he reaches for the journal, the sharpened claw of his gauntlet slicing easily through the flimsy tie. He flips to the latest entry, only meaning to skim through the last words of a monster, but his gaze freezes at the date written in the top right corner.

_Imperial Year 1182, 19th of the Ethereal Moon_

That makes today the twentieth then. His birthday.

Two decades in this world, six years spent hunting vengeance, and here he walks among decaying bodies, pilfering and scavenging no better than bandits, no better than carrion birds. As inhuman as the killers that lie dead at his feet, corpses by his own hand.

It’s as good a birthday gift as he could receive, he supposes. A reminder of what he truly is.

* * *

**1183.**

Dimitri turns twenty-one, and for his troubles, he earns an Imperial soldier’s axe lodged so deep into his armor, the blow knocks the literal breath from his lungs.

But the axe remains stuck within his armor, the soldier unable to rip their weapon out, and Dimitri wastes no time in grabbing their wrist. He feels the bones snap beneath his grip before he hears it, listens to their agonized cries for help, for mercy, for him to stop. Dimitri squeezes and squeezes, digging the sharpened nails of his gauntlet even deeper into their arm, as he savors the sound of their pain. The wicked, feral grin stretched across his lips only grows wider and wider, and he bares his teeth in rotten glee. Their battalion lies in a bloody, shredded mess of carcasses all around them: eyes gouged out, necks snapped in half, limbs scattered across the ground feet away from unrecognizable bodies.

It’s what they deserve, after all. In their service to the Empire, these soldiers saw fit to raze this tiny village to the ground. The burning flames of their vile intent rage all around them, encircling them all in torment and hatred. Dimitri’s loved ones scream at him for justice, for vengeance, for the guilty to be damned as they deserve.

And so Dimitri answers them.

By the time he’s had enough of the soldier’s screams, their hand only remains connected to their arm by sticky strands of sinew and tendon. He lets go, and they crumple to the ground in a sobbing, hysterical heap. Tears stream down from their eyes to cut paths through the blood on their face, the shrillness of their voice somewhere between laughing and shrieking. Dimitri listens to it grow thick with blood as he impales their neck with his lance in one slow, almost leisurely motion.

He does not know how long he stands there, covered in viscera and gore. By the time human voices reach him, the sunlight of dawn barely breaks through the smoking, smoldering ashes of the village. 

“—a miracle, a miracle I tell you! And on the day of Prince Dimitri’s birthday, surely the prince himself must have sent him to us!”

“Are you out of your mind?! The prince sending that _monster_ for us? We don’t even know the prince is really gone, you know! Everyone’s saying that head Cornelia put up on display in Fhirdiad wasn’t even really him, just some lookalike!”

Dimitri whips around, teeth bared as an unearthly growl rips from his throat. The old man and woman behind him shriek, clinging to each other with their legs shaking beneath them. He can only imagine the sight they must see, a one-eyed hulking ghoul, dripping in blood. The old woman has the right of it; the only thing that came for them is a monster, nothing more and nothing less.

“The prince is _dead_ ,” he tells them as they remain paralyzed where they stand. “I killed him myself.”

It’s as good as true, after all. From the way the color drains from their faces, the way they run for their lives away from him, he thinks they understand that. 

He looks down at the axe stuck in his chest plate, and with a grunt, tears it out. The axe breaks away a chunk of armor, revealing a dark blue scar underneath the black metal. It reminds him of the blue of the Faerghus flag. It reminds him of the blue of his cape as house leader of the Blue Lions. 

It reminds him of a boy long since dead, the boy he killed himself.

Later though, alone and far away from the smoldering rubble of the Kingdom’s last gasps for breath, Dimitri removes his armor piece by piece. He sits down and grabs the chest plate, staring at the azure gash scarred into it now, then flips it over to carve the Crest of Blaiddyd into the back with a knife.

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, crown prince of Faerghus, has been dead for years now— but when the time comes, he wants Edelgard to know just who it is that came to take her head. She should know just who was sent to kill her and what for.

He is as good as dead, but his ghost walks the earth still. Until he finally sees that woman’s head severed from her body, he will haunt this land for as many years as it takes.

* * *

**1184.**

That year, Faerghus sees its first snowfall on the day of Dimitri’s birthday.

Not that he knows, nor would he care. He judges time now only by battles and bloodshed. How many days it’s been since he last sought justice, how long it’s been since he spilled the Imperial blood his loved ones demand. When he looks up into the sky and watches the snowflakes drift slowly down, only one thing comes to mind: he will die from the cold without warmer clothing than his armor and the fur pelt of a beast. 

The freezing snowfall seems appropriate in its own way though. Winter has grown colder every year, a reminder that slowly but surely, Faerghus withers away more and more. With Adrestia’s constant assault pushing further and further into Faerghus, with Fódlan’s largest granary in Gronder Field under Imperial control and the land’s poor soil unable to adequately provide, the death of Faerghus seems a sure, inevitable thing.

It seems even more so when he stumbles into a battlefield that is, for once, not a wreckage of his own making.

The pillars of black smoke were unmistakable even from miles away, and as he made his way toward it, he expected to find a village or town under Imperial raid. It was a common enough sight out here in western Faerghus: houses and buildings burning down, people scrambling from the streets in futile hopes of escaping death, children left wailing and screaming until cut down by blade or magic or beast. Dimitri has seen it too many times to count.

Today, that is not what he finds though. Today, in the cold of winter as the sun sets all too soon, he finds the leftover carnage of whatever battle was held here—corpses left and right, adorned in silver and blue armor.

It was a one-sided battle, from what he can see. A slaughter, more like. For every five Faerghan soldiers he sees staring wide-eyed and empty into the darkened, ashen sky, he finds maybe one Imperial troop in turn. Giant, beastly footprints left their mark in the soil, and he can picture all too easily the monsters these soldiers must have fought. Some lay face down with swords skewered into their backs, others with bubbled, boiled skin looking fit to burst from dark magic, others still with claw marks torn through their mail and armor, heads bitten off or innards exposed from their busted open mail. By some miracle, one still upholds a tattered Kingdom standard, Loog atop his griffin waving even now through all the smoke. 

Dimitri didn’t know Kingdom soldiers still fought. He didn’t even think Kingdom flags still existed. 

He should have been here, fighting with them. Their deaths are on his hands, a king who abandoned his people.

But he squeezes his eye shut, tearing the flag right from its pole. Faerghus never had a king after Lambert; Cornelia and Edelgard saw to that. These people made their own choice to die for a country that no longer exists, fighting for a hopeless cause. If anyone else wishes to throw their lives away in a futile fight against the Empire, it matters little to him. The people of Faerghus are not his responsibility, not when he’s yet to take justice with his own hands.

Later though, he sits down with that tattered flag. Dimitri pulls the fur mantle from his shoulders, lines it against the flag, and begins to sew. Not even his pelt will be enough to keep him warm through this snow. That’s all it is.

If his touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he maneuvers the proud image of Loog with his griffin, he doesn’t notice. If his gaze lingers on the Crest of Blaiddyd for far too long, he doesn’t notice. And if he sleeps that night curled under the banner of his home, warmer than he’s been in so long under the weight of something so familiar, yet even colder knowing this frayed fragment may be all what’s left of a country once so dear to him— 

He doesn’t notice. He chooses not to.

* * *

**1185.**

When Dimitri finds himself at Garreg Mach Monastery, he does not know what day it is.

But he knows the month.

In another life, he supposes the monastery would have been well under way with preparations for the millennium festival by now. Celebrating a thousand year anniversary would likely require an entire month’s worth of planning, if not longer. He would have set aside time from whatever his schedule in Faerghus was to come back to his old academy, to see his old classmates and friends after so long—or maybe not so long. Perhaps he would have appointed Ashe as a knight by then, seen him walking the halls of the castle with Dedue when on duty. Perhaps Felix would have been in the process of succeeding Rodrigue’s position, grumbling every step of the way but always observing with due diligence. Perhaps Annette would have complained with a laugh that despite living in the same city as her dear friend, the King of Faerghus could never make time for even a bit of tea.

He wonders what they would have looked like. He wonders if they’re even still alive.

In this life, he stares down at the corpses of the Imperial troops he pursued here, their horror-stricken faces forever frozen in agony. At least, the faces that haven’t been torn in half by their jaws or caved in from when he crushed their skulls in his hand appear to be so. In truth, he can’t remember all of what he did to them, how he found and pursued them all the way to the foot of the monastery. All he knows are the results. It is difficult to remember these days, when his savage bloodlust permeates every breath he takes, when sights such as these are what he sees every single day.

Dead and gouged of their eyes, a soldier stares sightless back up at Dimitri. He ignores it as he walks forward through the once familiar gates of Garreg Mach.

The academy lies in even worse disrepair than he remembers. He walks the empty halls with a lance in hand, looks at the broken towers where tall spires once stood, sees the shattered window frames where sunlight used to pour forth in rainbows through the stained glass. Patches of grass have gone brown and dead in the cold of winter, and the previously neatly trimmed bushes grow wildly in all directions, overrunning pathways that aren’t already covered in broken rubble. Cloudy as it is, the entire monastery appears dull and gray and cold, so different from the warm buildings he remembers dappled in sunlight. 

It is a hollow place now, empty and alone. How fitting that he should find himself here once more.

When he walks through the old Blue Lions classroom, it is thanks to memory rather than any marker. Every banner and flag marking the classroom has long since been torn down or burned through, the few scraps remaining discolored and faded from time. The classrooms for the Golden Deer and Black Eagles houses are in just as poor a condition, mere shells of what they once were: chairs and desks overturned or broken, the shelves stripped of every valuable book with the rest thrown carelessly to the ground. Tarnished and worn as it is, it is almost difficult to even think of the room as a classroom, to remember it as a place of learning and studying.

Dimitri remembers though. He remembers all too well.

It was in this very classroom where he celebrated his birthday—or at least, celebrated the first part of his birthday, as Flayn and Sylvain insisted that a true celebration deserved a more exciting location other than the classroom they studied in nearly every day. Despite hardly making any mention of his birthday, even planning on letting it pass as silently as possible, Dimitri couldn’t bring himself to say no to his friends. Not when Ingrid insisted that the food Dedue and Ashe made for his birthday was all to die for. Not when Annette chimed in with glee that the cake Mercedes made for him had to be the prettiest one Garreg Mach had ever seen. Not when even Felix greeted him with well-wishes and a tip that the same merchant who he found his Zoltan sword from was back. Not when the professor insisted he enjoy himself on his birthday with a promise to share a cup of tea afterwards. 

Stuck in a classroom with his cheeks flushing pink and no way to get himself out of a situation he’d never intended to start—for once, his birthday felt like an occasion worth celebrating. Surrounded by warmth and the smiling faces of so many dear to him, he allowed himself to celebrate with them, rather than lament the passing of another year without justice. 

This year though, he stands alone in the cold classroom. His father begs for justice, his stepmother begs for her daughter’s head, and he knows he was a fool to waste so much time.

So he haunts the monastery halls hunting rats, hunting bandits, thinking himself a fool to even come here. The professor is dead, Dedue is dead, his classmates could be dead, and as far as they know, as far as he’s concerned, he himself has been dead for years and years and years. Even before the war. Even before the academy. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd died on that tragic day in Duscur, and a phantom has walked in his place ever since.

It does not matter what day it is. It does not matter how long he stays when he knows no one will come. But he makes his way to the Goddess Tower and waits all the same, for the gift of knowing once and for all that he is truly, utterly alone.

* * *

**1186.**

On the twentieth day of the Ethereal Moon in Imperial Year 1186, Dimitri wakes up in the lavish royal chambers of Fhirdiad Castle and knows exactly what day it is.

He wakes up, and he smiles.

Although in truth, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep for much longer even if he hadn’t awoken on his own. Dedue knocks on his door only a few moments later, already dressed and prepared for the day they have ahead of them—the day all of Fhirdiad has ahead of itself. If Dimitri hadn’t overseen so much of the paperwork himself, he would wonder just where on earth the people managed to get so many supplies after more than five years of war and even more years of hardships and difficulties. He has seen the paperwork though, continues to oversee it himself, so he knows just where they got their supplies from.

For them to make use of those supplies by throwing a city-wide festival in celebration of the birthday of their Savior King though—that, he’s not sure he’ll ever understand.

It is not how he would’ve chosen to celebrate his birthday himself if given the option, in all honesty. When Mercedes so plaintively stated though how if left up to him, they would likely have no opportunity to celebrate his birthday at all, well. That had been a little difficult to argue against, as so often was the case with Mercedes.

He lived for so long lamenting the fact he of all people survived that day in Duscur when so many others were so much more deserving. That only seemed truer and truer the older he became. Now, an entire city celebrates that he lives, that he was born at all.

It’s a strange feeling, no matter how he thinks about it. It’s strange, but it makes him smile all the same.

“Are you sure Felix and Sylvain will be fine with all the meetings? Or perhaps there are some documents I could look over for them beforehand, I don’t wish to leave all of my work up to—”

“It is fine, Your Majesty,” Dedue replies at his side, Annette sitting at his other as they enjoy a quiet breakfast together before heading into the city. And, according to Annette, so she can steer Dimitri clear of the kitchen before he can catch a glimpse and ruin the surprise of what Ashe and Mercedes are preparing for the grand feast later. Even knowing he can’t taste a single bite of it, the two of them spare no effort to cook for him regardless. It’s enough to make Dimitri’s heart twist in his chest, so full and warm he can hardly stand it. “There were few matters scheduled for today to begin with.”

Annette beams up at him as she nods, her teacup clinking against its platter when she sets it down too quickly. “Yeah, don’t worry about it, Your Majesty! Felix told me they’d be done by the afternoon, so they should be able to meet up with us in the city afterwards.”

He nods, albeit slowly, still unsure of the idea of leaving his responsibilities to others, especially when it’s just to, what? Have fun walking leisurely around while Felix and Sylvain are working so hard? Before he can even voice as much though, Annette frowns, brow furrowed in the same determined way he’s grown so familiar with.

“If you try to head back, I _will_ drag you out of the castle myself if I have to.”

It’s really no joke that Annette could drag him out by sheer force, not when she swings Crusher around with such casual ease—yet even so, he can only laugh, hearty and loud. Soon enough, Annette laughs along with him, and even Dedue bears a small, warm smile.

Once they finish with breakfast,Dedue takes his leave—although whether it’s to help Felix and Sylvain with the meetings, or to help Ashe and Mercedes with the cooking, Dimitri isn’t entirely sure—while Ingrid joins them officially as his guard, but he knows she’ll be perusing through every food stall they pass by through on the streets. He wouldn’t be surprised if she stopped by in the kitchen herself before joining them, just to see what would be in store for later.

Although it may be a while before they even make it to the street stalls, he thinks with a smile. An attendant informs them of an arrival at the castle entrance waiting for them, and even before they continue, Dimitri knows exactly who it is that’s arrived. 

The three of them waste no time in heading out then, and there at the bottom of the steps stands Flayn waving eagerly and Professor— _Archbishop_ Byleth, smile serene and looking nothing like an archbishop in her old, familiar wear of her mercenary days. Greetings and smiles are exchanged all around, Flayn marveling at finally having the chance to see Fhirdiad without having to fight her way through it and Annette and Ingrid both promising to show her their favorite sights. 

“You really didn’t have to travel all the way out here just for the occasion, you know,” he tells Byleth, grinning at the way his friends all laugh together. “Especially when the official talks won’t begin for a few days yet.”

His old professor simply shakes her head, her own smile just as bright and mesmerizing as it’s always been. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Besides, even if I pretended to consider missing it, Flayn certainly wouldn’t have allowed it.”

“Indeed! How could we possibly miss the birthday of such a dear friend? My brother was more than happy to accommodate us once he understood the reason for our early departure,” Flayn says with a vehement nod, and he thinks to himself that he ought to write Seteth in thanks for accommodating them. He can’t imagine how swamped the man must be with the church without Byleth there.

“See? There’s no way for me to argue against that. It just wouldn’t have been the same if we couldn’t tell you in person.” She looks up at him, eyes crinkled in the corners from how warmly she smiles. He has a feeling he looks just the same. “Happy birthday, Dimitri.”

How strange it is, that even after hearing those same words all day from so many people, he’s yet to grow tired of hearing them. He’s not sure he could ever grow used to the tightness in his chest every time, the reminder that there are so many who think him worth celebrating in such a way. That the people dear to him would go to such lengths for him, just to make sure he doesn’t forget.

The day has only started, but Dimitri knows without a doubt: today will be a happy birthday.

**Author's Note:**

> was this fic also a(nother) excuse for me to put a lot of my "how dimitri lived during the timeskip" headcanons into one place? mayhaps...
> 
> also, dear god, does the fodlan calendar system suck.


End file.
